How Does One Say That I Don't Know?
by stopdroptoohot
Summary: A collection of ficlets, one-shots, little stories- whatever floats your boat. Some sad, some happy, some I don't even know what to call them. Some have established Sherlolly. Always complete, seeing as I don't know if I'll ever put up more for this.
1. MOLLY ADOPTS TOBY

**Hello! Welcome to this story, or one-shot, or this short little thing. Whatever. I wrote these a long time ago, but they made some of my friends really sad and really happy to read them, so I thought- why don't I make strangers really sad and happy? Anyway- enjoy!**

It was a rainy day when Molly was in her first apartment that she decided to go out and explore the city. Of course, the day hadn't started that way- it had started off warm, without a cloud in sight, and the report showing close to no chances of rain. So here she was, rushing to get back to her apartment from just over five blocks away with no cabs in sight. It was getting dark out, raining, soaked to the bone, and felt the need to sneeze- when something caught her eye. Or rather a very _soft_ some _one._

SHe stopped in her tracks, pressing her hands on the glass, her breath fogging up the window. Peering inside the shop and into the pen was the most _beautiful cat_ she had ever seen. She had no idea what kind of cat- she didn't know those things off the top of her head- but it was _white_ and it was _fluffy_ and it was a _kitten. With big blue eyes._

Molly , glancing at her clock and finding it only four in the afternoon, walked into the pet store. The bells jingled in a cheerful manner that did _not_ match the weather outside as she pushed the door open. Looking around, it was easy enough to tell that this shop had little to no income: it was drabby, needed a new coat of paint, and a _deep_ clean.

She walked up to the pen, peering over the edge to look at the kitten. Currently - _purri_ ently - it was wrestling with another kitten (a calico shorthair cat). Molly, unsure if she could reach in and pet the fuzzballs, looked once more around the shop to find an attendant. Seeing no one around, she timidly reached her hand in and placed it in front of the cat, letting the small beast sniff her hand delicately.

"Ah, I see you've met Tobias."

Molly jumped with a squeak and turned on the spot, grasping at the fabric above her heart. "Good heavens! You scared me half to death!"

The one who had scared her was a very colorful young woman, only a couple years younger than herself. Her hair was a beautiful dyed maroon and barely contained by a bright yellow head band. She was wearing a black Doctor Who hoodie two sizes two big, with galaxy skinny jeans tucked into red boots. She wore a half grin on her face.

"Oh, sorry." She stuck out a hand, which Molly shook with her other hand. "I'm Tania."

"Molly."

The grin widened a little bit. "Anyway. That's Tobias- Tobias Rustat- some dude from Cambridge, dunno. He's about a two months old. Are you interested?"

"Very much so."

And that's how Molly went home with a kitten name after a benefactor to the University of Cambridge from the 1600's.


	2. Emotional Pain

**Sorry. Be prepared for some feels.**

(Established Molly/Sherlock)

It was a happy day. The sun that had rarely shown since winter had, and the streets were a pleasant warm that required no additional layers to be pleasant. Both the Holmes and the Watson family had spent the day at the park, where the nature surrounding them was a lively green, and it was only intensified by the sunlight streaming through the leaves, causing a happy glow. The Watsons, their two children- Marcus and Sophie- were playing with the Holmes child- Annalise, while Mary, John, Sherlock, and a very pregnant Molly sat at a table, chatting.

Molly and Sherlock, for the life of them, could never remember what they were talking about. When they think of this day, they think of happiness, warmth, love. The first part, at least.

When Annalise began whining, the Holmes took their leave, smiling and hugging until next time.

It was two hours later that Sherlock received a call from the hospital. He was John's emergency contact, it seemed. And there had been an emergency.

Sherlock and Molly rushed Annalise to Mrs Hudson's home (they were no longer living at 221b- too small, Molly said), and they raced to the hospital, desperate to see their friends.

There had been an accident- a horrible car pile-up due to an idiot that had decided it would be a good idea to drive high. Four were dead on scene, two more since then. Three critically injured, and eight hurt but not life threatening. The cause of it all acquired no injuries.

Mary had escaped with minor injuries, resulting in a broken arm and a slightly worrying concussion. Sophie, their youngest, had a broken femur, several broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a skull fracture. John and Marcus had taken the brunt of the force- he had been driving, and Marcus was directly behind him. John was in critical condition, and they were worried that he would become death number seven. Marcus was killed on impact.

Molly simply stared at the wall when they were brought this news, seemingly in shock. But no husband was there to comfort her, as he clearly had a different approach to his grief- cussing out the messenger. After some not-so-pleasant words had been exchanged, he took to stalking the small room, pacing back and forth growling obscenities under his breath.

Hours later, a different nurse, one clearly experienced with upset people and was not fazed by it, brought out news of the family. Mary was being kept through the night, at least, though her injuries were minimal- it was discovered that she was pregnant. Sophie's condition was improving- the bone had been shifted back into place without the need of surgery. However, John's condition was steadily declining. It was unsure if he would survive through the surgery to stop his internal bleeding. There was just _so much blood._

Even as Molly's soft sobs echoed through the room after this visit, Sherlock had yet to so much as _move_ to comfort her. Now the directing of his anger was not quite enough- he needed the satisfaction of someone else feeling what he was feeling- the feeling of losing the closest friend he had ever had. His anger was to be funneled into the closet thing with a mouth that could answer- Molly.

He was filled with no remorse as he set his gaze on his clearly exhausted wife, who had since stopped crying and was now simply staring at nothing. "You should be _doing_ something. You're just _sitting_ there."

She kept her gaze at the wall, but Sherlock could see that she had heard him. "What am I supposed to do, Sherlock? I'm eight months pregnant, emotionally and physically exhausted, and have not had anything to eat since lunch."

Sherlock sneered at her, and Molly, sensing his angry, swung her gaze over to him. "You're so weak. So pathetic, so _stupid._ Do you even know what it's like? Of course you don't- you're so _simple._ "

Her eyes widened. She hadn't been insulted like this from him since- well- ever. She couldn't take it to heart, though, he had proved that he loved her. "Know what what is like, Sherlock?"

His sneer turned into a harsh glare, and she blinked at the hatred that was held in it. "Emotional pain. Of course, you are a woman, so you go through your hardships every month- if you could call them that-"

She tried to stop him to calm him down. "Sherlock, what-"

"And you lost your parents, of course- woopty do! Everyone has lost someone." Molly looked up at him, tears now gathering in her eyes at his dis-concern for her. "You don't know what it's like to lose so close to you!"

"John isn't dead, you haven't lost him!" Molly tried to argue, lifting herself up out of the chair.

He turned on her, now overflowing with an anger Molly had never seen before. She took a frightened step back, eyes wide. He didn't notice. "No. But you know what people do? They _die,_ Molly! Marcus is dead, John _will_ die, I will die, you will die, that _baby_ will die!" he gestured to her swollen stomach, and now her tears flew freely, but they were angry tears.

" _Sherlock Holmes._ " She said it with such authority that it demanded his automatic attention, and his eyes leveled with hers. "Of all the things. ' _That baby_ '?" Her expression was stern, and his seemed to falter under the glare of it. " _You_ do not get to dictate what is real 'emotional pain' and what is not. For _anyone._ And I will not fight to prove that I have felt what meets _your_ definition of 'emotional pain'." His eyes were slowly filling with regret, but Molly continued. "But I would like to have you know that I have met that marker. Three times, in fact. And I will not spend the time telling you about them, as clearly I am a waste of your valuable time. So please, Mr Holmes." She pointed a finger at the withering man, who now refused to meet her eyes. "Continue in your world of emotional pain. But know this- John will live, and _you_ are not the only one who has felt emotional pain."

She left without another word, walking off in search of Mary's room so she could have and provide the comforting environment they both needed. Sherlock collapsed in a chair, making no move to go after her.

"One for her mother and father, obviously. But the third…?"


	3. It's Raining

**All aboard the feel train?**

Sherlock's headstone was still up, six months to the day that he had come back to life, almost exactly two years later. Molly discovered this because she was in the vicinity, and therefore saw it. She stopped briefly, pausing to look at the slightly dirtied black stone, gave it a small caress in the same spot she had always when visiting in the past, and continued. She was not here today to look at an alive man's headstone- she was here to look at a very much so dead one's.

Molly paid no mind as the previously sprinkling sky decided that the little water falling wasn't nearly enough, and it slowly added water particles to existing droplets, making them bigger and fatter. She paid no mind to the fact that she was the lone live person in the cemetery, didn't even pause to think about the dead lying six feet below, and instead focused on finding a specific dead person.

Molly wasn't paying attention when she stepped delicately over a run down grave, with flowers so dry they were unrecognizable. She didn't notice the headstone so old you couldn't even make out the letter that had once been so painstakingly carved there. She paid no heed to the plot of graves she passed by that had had no visitors in decades, and was therefore overrun by weeds, and the grass an unpleasant green.

Instead of noticing all these things, Margaret Alexandra Hooper had eyes for only one grave. She slowed as she approached- she wanted to be respectful to the owner of this particular headstone. Her eyes drifted down the lettering on the stark white marker, rereading the black lettering. She frowned as she got to the bottom of the grave and noticed a small weed there. She left it- because she knew the man would have scolded her in a teasing tone for wasting her time on something that was just gonna come back.

Molly started to cry but didn't notice as the rain really started falling, drenching her with water from all over the world. She cried harder as she reread the words once more.

MATTHEW ELIAS HOOPER  
A Brave Soul

Molly sat down in front of the grave she only visited once a year since his death. On his death day.

In all the movies, every single time there's a funeral, it's raining. That was Molly's life, because every single time she visited his grave, it was raining. Molly let out a sob and reached for the stone- reached for her father- but never quite made it. It made her cry harder. He was gone.

Every single year she subjected herself to this- she didn't know why. Perhaps she should have done the normal visit-every-week deal, and perhaps she would have forgotten and moved on. But no- she chose the once a year, I-can't-move-on deal. And she hated herself.

It was her fault, of course, that her father had died. She was a doctor, for Pete's Sake, and she didn't see the signs. Cancer- it always was. In the end it wasn't what took him- depression did- along with a metal bullet through the brain due to his own hand and a note with blood splatters.

Molly was originally supposed to be a real doctor- or at least what she considered one- with the patients and the stethoscopes that weren't just for looks, but were actually used. But she decided she couldn't. People died, and it was easier to hold a brain with unreachable memories than a live hand that could still share them.

Molly loved her job, of course. She had gained so many friends because of it- uncountable amounts, really. But it was just something...

Molly stood and turned when a branch cracked to her left, twenty feet away and deafeningly loud. She didn't bother to wipe her face or push away her hair as she saw Sherlock standing there, looking slightly confused.

"I texted you. Why didn't you answer?" his voice carried easily over the soft thuds of rain on grass, baritone and soothing.

"My phone's off." her reply came easily, and she prided in the fact that her voice didn't crack.

Sherlock nodded, but his expression made it clear that her reply didn't clear anything up. She didn't try to explain anything.

"You know," he started again, rocking awkwardly on his feet, "if you were aiming for my grave, you missed it by five plots." he was, of course, referring to the sections- little city blocks, if you will- that the cemetery was divided into. She rolled his eyes at his remark- after all this time, things were still about him.

"I know."

Sherlock, unsure of what to say, began walking towards her instead, joining her at the grave in front of her.

Sherlock stared at the name, a blank expression on his face as he worked the black text through his mind. "You never did tell me how he died." his voice was soft- and one could almost mistake it for sadness, or caring.

Molly cleared her throat. To lie, or... No. No lies. "They never tell you that one of the side effects of cancer is depression. His cancer was terminal, painful. So was his depression." she said all this in a seemingly unfeeling tone, looking at the headstone, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes.

It was a full minute later that Molly realised she was crying again, and she reached up to dry her eyes- but it's hard to do that when your face has the same amount of liquid on it as your sleeve has in it. So Molly sniffled slightly instead, rubbing instead drying.

What she didn't expect next was a pair of warm- given, wet- arms looping around her into a tight hug and pulling her close. Molly let loose a sob, uncaring as she nuzzled into Sherlock's chest and just cried.

One of Sherlock's hands was still holding her tightly, but the other went and started running it's fingers through her hair in a smooth repetitive motion. He leaned down slightly and placed a kiss on her head.

His next words were everything she didn't know she wanted to hear and words she didn't even know the Great Sherlock Holmes could say. Two of them, both simple. Both laced with meaning and underlying importance.

" _I'm sorry_."


	4. The Skull Belongs To

**Feels, anyone?**

Molly was curled into John's chair- or what was previously known as John's chair- nursing a cup of warm calming tea and staring into the fire. Molly had been over to help Sherlock with one of his experiments, but there was a snowstorm- a bad blizzard, really- a power outage, and Mrs. Hudson that had prevented her from going home.

So here she was- in quite the awkward position, might she add- in a pair of Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter's pajamas (they were cute: light-blue and white checker print with little black cat heads polka-dotted about), cuddled in a large comforter that Sherlock had found _somewhere_ for her, and feeling very awkward in the silence that neither Molly nor Sherlock felt bothered to fill.

Molly looked over at Sherlock uncomfortably, tugging the comforter closer to her body as she did so. Sherlock was lying across his chair, his legs swung across one arm rest and his head falling back against the other in what seemed to be an uncomfortable position to be in so long.

"Erm…" Molly tried, still looking at him. In response to her he cracked open an eye slightly. "Is that comfortable…? The way you're sitting? Because you've been sitting in that position for quite some time and if you're not careful you could-"

" _Molly_. Shut. Up."

Molly did as she was told, but sent a harsh glare in his direction. "Well, _excuse me_ for trying to make conversation." She mumbled under her breath. She was sure Sherlock had heard her sarcastic comment when he swung up-right in his chair to look at her full on.

" _I_ don't know what you expect, Molly. I am thoroughly bored- and the only form of entertainment has been shot down along with the power!" His gaze had his own glare in them, one that Molly ignored.

"Well, why don't we tell stories?" Molly suggested as she looked around the room. Finding a point of interest, she stood, half carrying the thick blanket with her. "What about this?" Holding onto the blankets in one hand, she took a hold of Sherlock's thinking skull, holding it out slightly. Taking a close look at it, she noticed something strange. "It looks as if-"

Sherlock shot out of his chair and nabbed the skull from her with an even deeper glare than before. " _This_ is an old friend, and _do not touch it._ "

Molly looked at him suspiciously. "Sherlock, that skull belongs to a child. Why do you have the skull of a _child_?"

Molly gulped nervously as she saw Sherlock's expression. _This where the saying comes true,_ she thought, _looks can kill._

"You're off by a bit, _Miss Hooper_." He sneered, "Child- no. Teenager- yes. Note the slightly more closed frontal suture- as a _doctor_ I would expect you to know that."

"Sherlock- why do you have a skull of a _teenager-_ then."

" _That_ , _Molly dear, is none of your business._ " With that he stole off with the skull, went into what she could only assume was his room, and slammed the door so hard she jumped.

Molly later found out (thanks due to Mycroft) that it was the skull of an incredibly close childhood friend. They were inseparable, and with intelligence on par with each other it was no doubt why. Turns out this childhood friend had a terminal illness of sorts- they died. In their Will their skull was left to Sherlock, oddly enough. He had kept the skull with him all these years.

However bad Sherlock must think of her prying little nose now, she knew a few things they thought she did not. One: the skull was not a teenagers- but belonged to someone in their early twenties. Two: the skull belonged to that of a woman. Three: Sherlock's heart had been broken- no- _decimated-_ before. Perhaps that's why he didn't have one at all.


	5. Mycroft and Molly

Molly winced as the door slammed behind Sherlock, leaving a loud resounding bang to fill the room and her ears. She felt like crying- she didn't know what to do. Sherlock had slowly become kinder and kinder- little things- like getting her a coffee when she was busy, or when he needed her help he would bring her something a little more substantial than crisps. It had all been going _so well._

Sherlock had kissed her. Not in the way she would have ever imagined it- no. She was bringing him some paperwork that he had requested- how could she refuse?- and one minute they were just talking, and the next they were, well, kissing. But something even stranger happened. Yes, stranger than Molly getting snogged by the man of her dreams. He broke the kiss, took a step back, and _glared at her._ Sherlock Holmes, the man that she had been in love with since the moment she saw him work, _snogged then glared at her._ THEN he had to open his big-fat-mouth (he couldn't help it, really. It's probably a disease. If it is, Sherlock is terminal), and yell at her. He claimed it was all her fault, that she should be the one blamed, that _she didn't matter enough to him anymore. That she wouldn't matter to anyone. That she was useless._ Yes- he actually said that to her.

So here she was, sitting shell-shocked on the floor of 221B, leaning up against the couch, and trying _desperately_ not to cry. And as you can probably guess, trying was not good enough today.

She curled into a little ball- wrapping her arms around her knees and pulling them close to her chest- and sobbed. Yes, she was partially crying because of a man. _All_ the dating magazines said to do one thing- not cry over a man. And yes, she was, but it was only partial. She was crying because she had heard those words before. From her younger sibling, whom had far surpassed her intellectual capabilities. From far to many idiotic-white-boy-teenagers that only wanted to win her heart for a bet. From her last boyfriends- Jim- when she had broken up with him. And now she knew the truth. The one man that could have made those doubts dissipate completely, never to be seen again, had said them to her. So obviously they must be true.

"You know, generally crying over a man isn't recommended."

Molly gasped in shock, and looked up, embarrassed to be found in such a state. She immediately started to wipe her eyes, and was surprised to see a white handkerchief to appear in her line of sight. She timidly took it and cleaned her face.

"But I suppose it would be a given- seeing as you just had our heart broken by probably the most idiotic man in the universe."

Molly, now thoroughly confused, peered up at the man standing there. She had never seen him before- light ginger, heavy stature, straight face. "U-um, sorry, but-"

The man raised both eyebrows. "Pardon me, miss. Mycroft Holmes."

"But-"

He sighed. "Sherlock's older brother, yes." he moved to sit on the couch, the seat next to where Molly was leaning against. "And he, as previously stated, is the most idiotic man in the universe." he sighed.

"See, he has this… _thing…_ where he doesn't do feelings. Not your fault, dear, it's just his mindset. Of course, it's clear to everyone but him-" he met Molly's eyes "-and you, apparently, that he loves you."

Molly shook her head. "No. He just said-"

He sighed again. "Yes, I know what he said. And he was lying. As his brother, it's my responsibility to look after him. Occasionally clean up his messes- including women that he loves that have been reduced to a sniveling heap of tears."

Molly opened her mouth to angrily retort- but the man sent her a look that could silence a blind crying baby, so of course it worked on her.

"Ms Hooper, I have watched you work with him over the past few years with rabid interest- do you know why?" When she didn't respond immediately he continued. "Because you're one of the only ones that can stand him- and you're one of the only ones he can stand."

He stood up, dusting off his coat slightly. "Keep the handkerchief, Ms Hooper. It isn't even mine." He took his leave.

Shaking her head slightly, she looked down at the monogrammed handkerchief. **SH**.

 _What_ just happened?


	6. The Evil One

**The real question on this site is Mycroft is underlined red in the Copy-N-Paste section in the Create New Document. Hmm.**

Mycroft sighed as he shook off his umbrella while stepping into his house. Today had been longer than usually with Moriarty coming "back" and all... To say the least, it had been emotionally straining- even for him.

It did not prove the fact that someone was in his house. Someone he had not even known was still alive.

Ignoring the presence for now, knowing they'd do him no harm, he stepped into his kitchen to prepare a drink. Usually he would go for alcohol, but given the current situation, tea sounded more... _Him._

Putting the kettle on, he went to prepare to mugs. "Do you take it the same way, Raphael, or has that changed with everything else?"

Mycroft's voice held no emotion towards the man that he had once called family. Looking up, he could see the man jump down from the rafters with high dexterity, landing lightly on his feet with flourish. Mycroft took the opportunity to re-absorb his appearance- now short blond hair, a larger stature, a more commanding presence.

Raphael had not always looked this way, Mycroft could remember. Gone was the childish sparkle in his eyes, the bangs and floppy hair that accompanied him through his first twenty years of life. No more existed the relaxed posture in his now broad shoulders, and the smirk that came with every simple sentence had vanished.

Here was Raphael, with a cold and calculative look that rivaled his own, detached from society and feeling. This man had certainly followed the genetic code that both Sherlock and Mycroft had gone through. No more happy smiles, only painful glares.

"Well, look at you, Mikey, haven't changed a bit!" he smiled, but no reminiscent was held in it. "And I go by Seb now."

The kettle boiled, and Mycroft turned to pour. "Yes, I heard. Sebastian Moran, employee of none other than Mr. James Moriarty." He handed a mug to Raphael.

"Ah, so you've heard of me!" the Holmes boy said, obviously pleased with himself.

"Isn't hard to when you have guns trained at Sherlock every other day."

Mycroft winced as he sipped at the tea, needing something a bit stronger. He reached into a cupboard and poured a not-too-healthy amount of alcohol in. He passed the bottle to Raphael, who simply forwent the tea and sipped straight from the container.

"Never shot him, did I?" Raphael pointed out.

Mycroft was about to reply in his _you have got to be kidding me_ tone when his phone buzzed. Raising his lip in distaste he pulled out the phone and opened the text from Sherlock:

 **Shoot him**

 **-SH**

"What did he say?" Raphael asked, deducing who had sent the text.

Mycroft looked up with a raised eyebrow, choosing to slide his phone away before answering. "Give him my love." Mycroft left the kitchen area, tea in tow, and went to sit in the parlor.

"He still hasn't forgiven me, has he?" his tone was bitter- it put Mycroft on edge.

Mycroft sat and gave him a harsh glare. "Yes, because finding out that your childhood pet was _not_ put down but _shot_ by an older brother doesn't put a damper on things."

The blond scoffed. "It was just a dog-"

Mycroft shook his head, a sad little smile on his face. "You really have no idea, do you?"

Raphael snapped his gaze up to meet Mycroft's, confusion evident in his eyes.

Mycroft stood, abandoning his tea. "We both may have been his siblings- but it was obvious _you_ were the one he cared about. The desire to be a pirate? From you. Going to school to study chemistry? He used that knowledge for something different than building _bombs,_ however. A slight deviance from the 'Follow the Leader' game he plays with you. I may have guided him slightly- but it was _you_ that gave him the bright idea to beg the parents for his own dog. To train that dog- teach it the rules of the trade: sit, lay, fetch, play dead- _he taught it how to find truffles_! That dog taught him how to-"

" _Dogs_ don't teach us anything, Mikey." His voice was sharp as a dagger, eyes like a laser drill. "Any you're a little out of character, don't you think? What happened to no emotions? The cool, _calm,_ exterior."

"That left the moment you broke my brother's heart for the second time, Raphael." There was no more emotion in his voice, and it cut into his younger sibling.

His brother took a threatening step forward. " _It's Sebastian._ " All previous hints of 'kindness' were gone, leaving him to be just the psychopath he had always been.

"Well, then, _Sebastian,_ " Mycroft sneered. "I hope you realise that this little excursion didn't change anything in our plans. The next time I see you, you _will_ be lying dead."

Sebastian's eyes were dark, gleaming maliciously at the threat that lay in Mycroft's words. The right side of his mouth curled up slightly, giving his entire presence that read 'I will not hesitate to kill you'. "Well, then, brother dear. See you monday."


	7. Game Night: Sherlock's Mistake

" _You_ did _NOT_ win." Sherlock growled recalculating the scores for the fifth time.

"Face it, Sherlock. You lost." John told him with a smile.

The four had been enjoying a date night in. They had been playing games all evening, and of course, Sherlock had won every single one. That is until Mary had the bright idea to bring out Scrabble. Mary, being friends with both individuals, knew that they were both bordering on the line of _impossibly_ good at this game. So if you take it that way, everything that had happened that night was Mary's fault. And Sherlock took it that way.

"It is _impossible_ that you have beaten me."

The game had started off just fine- John started with a twelve point word, and Mary's for thirty. Things started going downhill after Sherlock played an eighty point word only to be shown up by Molly's _ninety-eight_ point word.

"It very well is possible, you have the proof right in front of you." Molly replied, leaning back on the couch with a self-satisfied smirk.

"She didn't even play any 'weird' words, Sherlock. And everyone has done the maths- _twice,_ by your insistence. She won." Mary leaned into John, and he laid his arm across her shoulders, pulling her in closer.

"But she _can't have-"_

"I won, accept it." Molly was looking over at Sherlock with an eyebrow raised.

He looked over at her, brows furrowed. "I declare a rematch."

That's how Sherlock lost not one, but _four_ games that night.


End file.
